Do Not Go Gentle
by bellarke
Summary: The capitol will not forget Clarke Griffin.
1. Reaping

Welcome, welcome! Notes at the end!

* * *

_**Reaping**_

* * *

'Clarke Griffin!'

I can hear my heartbeat in my ears. My eyes are unfocused, things are hazy, people are looking at me and all my thoughts are rushing away, leaving one behind. My parents. I look for them behind me, but I lose them in the crowd of children that parts for two peacekeepers to push their way through to me. They each grab one of my arms and force me out into the middle of the town square. All eyes are still on me – my best friend, Wells is trying to reach me. But he can't.

The Capitol have come for me, just like my father feared they would.

I'm on stage a moment later, the man from the capitol ushering me over to the microphone, asking me if I want to say a few words before they reap the boys and we're taken away. I can't speak. My throat feels hoarse and so dry and all I really want is to be in my mother's arms, and to have her protect me from this. My eyes settle on my father in the crowd, two arms woven around my mother as they both try and be strong. But I can see it in them; the terror, the helplessness, and the guilt.

The odds should have been in my favour. My name was only in there seven times. There are plenty of poorer girls who'd traded paper for rations. There are plenty of girls who had a bigger chance. But I was chosen. And I wouldn't wish it on anyone else. I never do.

My father looks so sorry. So desperately sad that I can't look anymore, because I know he blames himself.

* * *

'_It's all in place,' says my father quietly as Jaha takes the seat opposite him. I crane my neck to hear better from the landing. I can see Jaha in his seat, but he hasn't noticed me. 'Charges are set, soldiers informed, and the peacekeepers on our side in one and two are ready.'_

'_Who's our contact in two?' Jaha asks, looking uncertain. _

'_Young guy, goes by Six. Committed to the cause.'_

'_You're sure?'_

'_Yes. He has his reasons. We're on a strict timetable here. Once the reaping is done, the rebellion has to start and we can't waste any time in getting Clarke –' My father stops suddenly, and it's because Jaha is looking right at me. _

_I hear my father cross the living room and rush back to my room. By the time he reaches me I'm sitting on my bed, waiting for him. I know he's been planning something for months, maybe even years, but I don't know what or who it's against. But mentioning the reaping and district two can only mean one thing; that it has to do with the hunger game; The Capitol. _

'_What's going on?' I ask at length, and he kneels before me. _

'_Clarke, listen to me.' He says firmly, and I nod. 'You need to forget everything you just heard. Understand?' _

'_I heard you talking about two, reaping – a rebellion?!' I say, ignoring him. 'What are you planning?' _

'_It's better if you don't know,' he says. _

'_Don't know what?' I demand. But he doesn't give in. Instead he touches my face, thumb rubbing my cheeks, and he smiles. _

'_I love you kid,' he says sincerely, and I know something's so very wrong now. 'That's all you need to know.' _

* * *

Now I think I understand, but I don't have time to dwell on it because they're reaping the boys. My stomach drops when the name is called, and I turn to where Jaha is standing behind me. He looks ready to fall.

Because it's his son. It's my best friend.

'Ladies and gentleman,' says the man from the capitol. He raises our hands. 'The tributes of district 5 – Wells Jaha and Clarke Griffin!'

Nobody applauds.

* * *

'Mom!'

I throw myself into her arms when she comes into the room for us to say goodbye. My Dad follows, and he engulfs us both. I can barely form a single thought, least of all the right words to tell them goodbye forever. How is a daughter supposed to do that? How are a mother and father supposed to send their child away to die?

I'm lost just thinking about it, but I can finally form words.

'What am I going to do?' I sob, pulling back from their embrace. Tears streak down my face. 'I'm not a killer, I'm not a murderer. I can't do this.' My voice breaks. 'I'm going to die.'

'You listen to me, Clarke,' my mother says, taking my face in my hands and rubbing away my tears. 'Listen. You are a fighter. You are tough, you are strong. You're a healer.' I am, I think. So many times I've helped her nurse people back to help from the edge of death.

'You don't have to kill. You just have to survive,' she says, eyes flicking all over my face. She kisses my forehead and lingers there, and I feel her tears drip down.

'We love you so much, kid,' my father says.

I'm calmer now. The gravity of the situation has slipped away with my mother's touch, but I still don't know how to carry on.

'I'm not a killer,' I whisper.

There's a knock on the door then, and my father hurries to undo the strap of his watch. 'Take this Clarke. Your token.' He secures it on my wrist and checks to see it's still working. When it is, he takes me by the shoulders and makes me look up at him. 'Don't _ever _take it off, no matter what.'

I try to pull myself together, but I feel sick and my hands are shaking. All I can think about is memorizing their faces and remembering their touch.

The door slams open and I expect the peacekeepers to drag me out, but they don't. These peacekeepers look different; they're tagged with capitol colours and words and suddenly my mother pushes me back against the wall to guard me. I wonder why, and then they attack my father. They pull out batons and beat him, and they don't stop when my mother tries to fight back, or even when I beg them to.

Minutes later, when they finally let up, there's blood pooling on the floor and over their uniform.

My father doesn't move. I can't breathe.

They take me by the wrists before I can get to him, and I try to fight back but all it earns me is my father's blood on my hands. I'm paralyzed as I look down at it. They force me to move, dragging me along the hallways and by the time I reach Wells I can barely stand. He takes my hands and tries to wash away the blood with his sleeves, but only smears it further up my arms.

We're bundled into the car to get to the train, and I break down again with his arms around me.

This is punishment. Punishment for my father being a good man, for trying to help us all and put an end to this misery. But they've killed him, and now they'll kill me too. This is the seventy-fifth annual hunger games – a quarter quell. The punishment will only get worse. Any hope of rebellion has just died. That's what they think. As the car roars to life, I turn to the window and through my blurry gaze I see my mother, a wreck in Jaha's arms, standing over my father as he's zipped into a body bag.

All at once, I'm not crying any more, my fists are clenched, and I'm seething, ready to burst on all sides with a rage I've never felt before. The ache of loss inside me has become a burning fire, rising and bubbling. I put away my sadness, like a good little soldier, and my heartbreak has become ire that I will turn on the capitol.

I touch the watch on my wrist.

The capitol will not forget Clarke Griffin.

* * *

S'uuuuup? So the Hunger Games and the 100 are two of my favourite things, and this work was inspired by a gifset I found on Tumblr by bellamyfuckinblake. I have bent the story to my will and changed some things up for you to enjoy, which i sincerely hope you do!

Feedback would be much appreciated! x


	2. Bellamy

Chapter twooooo. Things are kicking off.

* * *

**_Bellamy_**

* * *

The train smells clean. Sterile, cold and with hints of lemon. It makes me sick as I'm guided through it by our capitol companion. His name is Enree, and he doesn't seem to care about us. Perhaps he's worried his association with me, after what my father did, is dangerous for him. He can keep his distance for all I care. He's walking us through the parlour, then the dining car, our separate bedrooms and finally to the lounge. Our mentor is waiting for us there. Wells excuses himself to the bathroom, but I know he wants to be alone to cry. I turn into the lounge and close the door behind me.

Marcus Kane won his games when he was seventeen. He was part of the second quarter quell, when the tributes were reaped from selected, under-achieving families. My parents were lucky; they were left out of the running. But Marcus went in, and so did his sister. At forty two, he looks as young as he always did. But there's a darkness behind his eyes that, if pushed, comes spilling out and reminds us of what he's suffered through.

'Clarke,' he says when he sees me. He rises from his chair immediately, puts down the book he'd been scanning and comes over. 'I'm so sorry. How are you doing?'

I look up at him and shrug. 'Pretty crap,' I say, my voice catching at the end. He reaches out to bring me in for a hug, but I stop him, shaking my head. It's not the time or the place.

I put the image of my father out of my head for now. I keep what memories I have of him safe, tucked away in a dark corner of my mind for a rainy day when I'll need him.

He looks at me with pity, sympathy, maybe even empathy. He and my father were friends, and he leaned on my father, and my mother too, when he came home from the games. They were close, although he stopped coming around so much as I got older, but I figured it was because he didn't want to get involved with my father's plans.

'Do you know what he was planning?' I ask, looking around the room. Anywhere but at his face. I can't handle the pain it drags up in me. He doesn't say yes, doesn't even nod, but the look on his eyes when I turn back to find out the truth gives him away. He looks over my head, and I peer around at the security camera that's watching us.

'We need to start talking strategy,' Kane says, offering me a seat before sitting in the one opposite. He pushes a tray of food towards me, but the sickness in my stomach forces me to decline it. I can't throw up if there's nothing inside.

'What's the point?' I say. My eyes are heavy with sorrow, but my tears are all gone. He looks horrified at my words, but I mean them. 'I'm going to die,' I go on. 'But I'm not going to sit there and take it.'

'What are you talking about, Clarke?'

'It all has to stop, Kane. All of it. The games, the torture they put through, the rebellion –'

'You're not in your right mind,' he says, brushing me off and trying again with the food. I stop the tray and shove it back.

'I am. I can see what needs to be done.'

He's looking at me like I've lost my mind, but I'm only telling the truth. I sit back in my seat and weave my hands together in my lap.

'And what's that?'

With clarity, and a sudden rush of adrenaline, I tell him simply,

'I have to die.'

* * *

'You're mad if you think I'll let you go through with this – if you think either of us will!' Wells scolds me later, after he's joined Kane and me in the lounge. He's standing against the window, leaning back, with his arms folded. It's his 'thinking pose'. I'm curled up in my seat still, knees pulled in to my chest.

'He's right,' Kane says, trying to reason with me. He reaches over to touch my arm and it grabs my attention. He's not a comforting man. He never has been, not with me. 'What do you think it would to your mother?'

'Remind her that I'm my father's daughter,' I say simply, and I see his jaw clench. He sits back and looks at the ugly yellow carpet.

'Clarke –' Wells begins, but I shoot him a look and he stops. I rise from my seat and head over to the window. The districts of Arcadia are passing us by, reminding us that we're getting ever closer to the capitol, and to the games.

'I watched my father get… _beaten_ to death this morning.' My voice trembles, but I won't let the nerves win. 'I'm being sent to my own death, alongside my best friend,' I add as an aside, looking to Wells and squeezing his hand. 'All because my father had a vision for the future; a future free of suffering, of dying children. They stopped him, because they thought that would stop the rebellion.' I look back at Kane. 'But it won't.'

'What are you saying?' Wells asks, arms dropping to his sides in anticipation.

'Clarke, you need to think about this,' Kane warns, eyeing the security camera once again. I follow his gaze, and then move over to it. Picking up a candlestick, I aim true and swing for the camera. It short circuits on impact, and half of it falls to the floor.

'I'm the rebellion now,' I say, whirling back to look at them. 'And they're going to kill me too. But not before Arcadia understands what needs to be done.'

'You want to start a war?' Kane asks, standing up and looking, almost, like he's standing to attention for me.

I straighten up, glancing quickly through the windows of the train. I can see the lights of the capitol in the distance.

'No,' I say. 'I want to finally put an end to one.'

* * *

'You're going to meet the rest of the tributes soon,' Kane tells us as we disembark from the train.

There are swarms of capitol citizens around us, taking pictures, yelling congratulations, asking for autographs, wanting to know if Wells and I are just friends. Kane pushes a way through them for us before peacekeepers arrive to escort us to the tribute apartments. We've reached the elevator out of the station when capitol journalist grabs me by the arm.

'News travels fast to the capitol, Clarke Griffin. How has your father's untimely death affected your mind set going forward?'

My blood turns to ice in my veins and I lash out. Kane stops me in time, hands on my arms to keep me from doing any damage. It's all I can do not to spit in the reporter's face. As Kane mutters that it's not a good idea, I force myself to calm down. The crowd around us has grown larger, and there are cameras and microphones in my face as the peacekeepers try to pull us away before I spill the truth. But they're not in time.

'My father was murdered by the capitol,' I say, before disappearing into the elevator and leaving them to their feeding frenzy.

'Clarke!' Kane reprimands me when the three of us are alone.

The elevator goes down quickly, and we're led to a tram outside. The emblem of the capitol shines out at us, and I think of how much better it would look covered in red paint. We're driven to our apartment building, and when Wells and I step out onto the pavement a little later and look up at it, we're shadowed by the towering balconies and porch lights. There's a faint humming of power – I recognize it from our home town. There's a force-field around the perimeter.

'Shall we?' Wells says, and Kane leads the way into the foyer.

'What are the rules this year?' I ask, unenthused by my surroundings. The look of the capitol people is eccentric to say the least, but I can't help but think they all remind me of sheep.

'It's the third quarter quell,' Kane explains, holding a door for us.

When we step into the entrance hall, we're met with twenty two other tributes, and I recognize some of them from previous games. There's a girl and boy from three holding hands; she looks deadly. The boy doesn't look as dangerous, but I won't count him out. The career pair from district one are staring at me. Not surprising. District one is renowned for its ties to the capitol, and surely my outburst at the reporter is news by now.

'Twelve tributes were handpicked, and twelve were just bad luck,' Kane looks from me to Wells, and I can guess which of us was chosen on purpose. It makes my skin crawl.

'I recognize some of them,' Wells says quietly, eyeing a tall, dark haired boy across the room. I crane my neck to get a better look, but someone steps in my line of view and the boy disappears.

'Anyone can volunteer,' says Kane. 'This year the age limit was revoked for that.'

I'm still looking for the dark-haired boy when my gaze settles on a girl instead. She's much shorter than the boy and much younger looking, and appears to be from a career district. She's well dressed, equipped and I'm trying to figure out where I've seen her before when it dawns on me, and Wells spells it out.

'That's Bellamy Blake,' he says, and I can finally see. Bellamy catches my eye across the room and fixes me with a stare. He seems to stand a little taller as we look each other over. He keeps eye contact as he runs his hand over his mouth, and I notice the watch on his wrist. When he drops his arm, he looks away.

'District two,' I say, more to myself than anyone else.

He won eight years ago, after going on a spree and decimating six people in less than an hour. He was cold, cruel and calculating, and I know I'm going to want him on my side.

'He volunteered?' Wells sounds surprised. 'Why would he want to come back?'

I think I've figured out why. Kane confirms my suspicions.

'See the girl next to him?' he says, pointing her out. 'That's his sister.'

* * *

_Dun, dun, duuuuun. Bellamy's in the house! Feedback? x_


End file.
